


Tell me again

by Spidergwenstefani



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Kinda?, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 18:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16351559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spidergwenstefani/pseuds/Spidergwenstefani
Summary: '‘Marry me,’ he signs, grinning, and Clint snorts, pressing his nose into Bucky’s chest. Bucky smells like detergent. Like aftershave and cologne. He smells like a functioning adult. Like a guy that comes home in his sensible SUV, gives a hello kiss to his wife and two-point-five kids. Clint smells like wet dog and smoke.He should probably tell Bucky not to joke like that. That it’ll only make the sting worse when the clock runs out on how long they can keep this whole thing up. But Clint is a little selfish and a lot tired, so he just kisses the strange look off Bucky’s face instead.'AKA Clint is slow sometimes, and stubborn always. Good thing Bucky's patient.This is for Anon who asked for hurt/comfort. I think I did alright on the comfort, at least.





	Tell me again

**Author's Note:**

> For Anon who said: holy shit bro, your writing is incredible. your characterization is perfect too, it’s insane. i’m always a sucker for some emotional hurt/comfort, especially between my fav ex-assassins! if you ever feel like it, i would love you forever if you maybe wrote something like that? i don’t know man, i just love your writing and i love this ship which is a very dangerous combination haha (bonus marks if you can include some pesky insecurities bein SQUASHED, or just comfort fluff in general) <3
> 
> This took me SO LONG and it's probably filled with typos, but if I don't post it now I'll probably spend the next month just nitpicking it. Anon, whoever you are, you're the loml. I hope this is anything close to what you wanted?

It starts off as a joke.

Maybe.

Probably.

No. Of _course_ it starts off as a joke. Because Bucky Barnes might be the single best person this side of the twentieth century and Clint is, well. Clint.

He’s having a particularly Clint kind of day when it starts, too. His mission with Natasha didn’t so much go awry as it did erupt spectacularly in a blazing inferno. He’s still sore and slightly singed when they make it back to New York. The fact that Natasha hasn’t said anything about him literally blowing their cover doesn’t mean Tony won’t. Actually, there’s a pretty solid inverse relationship between how much shit Natasha gives him about fuck ups and how much Tony does. Either way, he’s not anywhere near ready to show his face in the Tower, so he leaves the SHIELD jet and gets straight into a taxi, rattling off his address in Bed-Stuy before anyone can drag him anywhere else.

The apartment’s empty when he gets home. Which, okay. It’s fine. He’s not disappointed or anything. There’s no reason Bucky would be there waiting for him. They’ve been dating for sixteen months now if you count from their first official date. Which Clint does, because counting from their first kiss would mean acknowledging that this is one of the longest relationships he’s ever had, and he and Bucky are hurtling ever closer to the tried and true expiration date that seems to be stamped on all of Clint’s romantic endeavors.

He tells himself he’s glad it’s just him. Now he has time to collect his thoughts, take a breather from the adrenaline of the mission. He tells himself that as he showers off the blood and grime, patches up a few cuts. Clint wraps up his wrist because he knows Bucky will scold him if he doesn’t. He’s so busy telling himself that, he forgets Lucky takes up napping outside the bathroom door while Clint showers.

He goes down in a flurry of curses, accepting his fate of landing hard on a bruised shoulder if it means not crushing his dog. Lucky gives him a bark and a lick to the face for his trouble, pressing his wet nose into Clint’s armpit.

He left his aids on the kitchen counter, so he doesn’t so much hear the footsteps as feel them thud against the floor. It’s an unmistakable thump. The militant hipster look might be making a comeback in Bed-Stuy, but there’s only one person in Clint’s life who wears honest-to-god steel-toed boots as casual wear.

Clint looks up to see Bucky leaning against the wall, the expression on his face so fond it makes Clint’s heart feel more bruised than the rest of him.

“Hi,” he tries to say, but the combination of dog fur and shower-damp skin means there’s the taste of mutt in his mouth. His words are cut short with a coughing fit. Clint tries to spit it out, scrubbing the fur off the rest of his face and deciding that Bucky can’t be laughing at him if he doesn’t see it.

Bucky is still laughing when he opens his eyes, though, offering Clint a hand like his knight in shining titanium. He puts a spin of super-soldier strength on the assist, which sends Clint tumbling into his arms, the dog hair all over his bare chest and pajama pants definitely getting all over Bucky’s clothes.

Bucky’s staring at Clint’s lips, but he doesn’t kiss him. He steps backward instead, giving just enough room for him to sign between them.

‘ _Marry me,_ ’ he signs, grinning, and Clint snorts, pressing his nose into Bucky’s chest. Bucky smells like detergent. Like aftershave and cologne. He smells like a functioning adult. Like a guy that comes home in his sensible SUV, gives a hello kiss to his wife and two-point-five kids. Clint smells like wet dog and smoke.

He should probably tell Bucky not to joke like that. That it’ll only make the sting worse when the clock runs out on how long they can keep this whole thing up. But Clint is a little selfish and a lot tired, so he just kisses the strange look off Bucky’s face instead.

>>=========>

It’s not even a week later when Bucky starts up again.

They’re at the tower this time. Natasha always tells Clint to give Tony a three-day buffer to forget what he was going to make fun of him about. He’s pretty sure three days is just how long it takes her to get around to threatening Tony within an inch of his life. Either way, three days later is Clint’s general margin for showing his face after a terrible mission. So three days later he’s in the common area, playing Mario Kart with Bucky on a couch that cost more than Clint’s entire building but is somehow still not quite as comfortable as his armchair from Salvation Army.

Clint is leaving Bucky in the dust on Rainbow Road and resolutely not commenting on it, because Bucky _kills_ on Rainbow Road. he’s afraid that if he pokes around in Bucky’s thoughts right now, a very serious Conversation is going to fall out. A Conversation with a capital ‘C’ that Clint’s pretty sure would shatter him for the foreseeable future. Instead, he focuses on getting Princess Peach around the next bend and pretends he doesn’t see Bucky open his mouth.

“Do you not want to get married?”

It’s. It’s not what Clint was expecting. It’s maybe not _not_ what he was expecting, but he’s definitely not sure how to answer. Bucky looks at him expectantly, and the wail Peach gives as she realizes there’s no road underneath her anymore is entirely too relatable.

“What?” Clint asks. Bucky gives him a reproachful look, but there’s a nervous look in his eyes.

“Do you not want to get married? We’ve never really talked about it, I guess. I just thought- but then the way you laughed the other day. I didn’t-” Bucky trails off with shrug, but it’s not a dismissal of the conversation. He still has Clint fixed with a stare. A stare that’s more hurt than Clint was ready for. The moment stretches out between them, but Bucky doesn’t take it back. He just leaves his gaze on Clint, raw and open and waiting.

“I don’t know,” Clint says finally, because it’s the truth. He learned pretty quickly into their relationship that Bucky’s hurt feelings get soothed much easier with the truth than anything else. “I guess- I guess I haven’t thought about it. I mean, after Bobbi and. And all _that_. I just figured I wasn’t husband material.”

It’s the truth, but Bucky doesn’t seem happy about it.

“What do you mean?” There’s an edge of anger in Bucky’s voice. Not at Clint, exactly, but still there.

Clint pauses the game, because Peach and Toad have been stopped on the track for a few moments now, and he’s not about to end a relationship to the Mario Kart theme song _again_.

“I mean- I mean you deserve better, Bucky. I’m a fuck up. You don’t want to marry me.”

“Do you want to marry _me_?” Bucky asks, his brows drawing together like he’s working through a math problem. Clint almost whines, because this is so much worse than the other times. He can’t hide behind shouting and lies. Bucky’s about to draw every last painful admission out of him before he leaves his ass in the dust.

“I always thought we’d end things before we got to that,” Clint says. It’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth. It’s the truth that he knows is going to make Bucky walk away before Clint can say too much else.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Bucky says, still firmly planted on the couch. He’s not glaring, not exactly. He just looks. Intense.

“Yes, okay? Yes. I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to grow old together and retire to Florida and yell at punk kids to get off our lawn.” Clint says it all in a rush, wishing to god he could turn away, stare at his feet instead of the not-quite-a-glare in Bucky’s eyes, which has melted away just a little bit.

Bucky just sets down the controller, taking Clint’s hands in his. The cool metal is almost soothing, and Clint finds himself staring at the way Bucky’s entwined their fingers together. Huh. This isn’t usually how it goes.

“Then marry me,” Bucky says. His voice is soft, and when Clint looks up he sees his eyes match. He’s looking at Clint like he’s something special. Like he hung the goddamn moon. He’s looking at Clint like he’s- oh. He’s serious.

“You don’t want to marry me,” Clint repeats, because it doesn’t sound exactly true anymore, but the other thing is too big to say out loud. Bucky squeezes his hands.

“You don’t tell me what I want,” he says, and his voice is gentle but Clint winces anyways. He waits for Bucky to pull his hands away, for the warmth of him to disappear. “ _I_ tell you what I want.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “Okay. What do you want, Buck?”

Bucky slides his metal thumb over the back of Clint’s hand, both of them watching the movement. He sighs, bringing Clint’s hand up to his mouth so he can press a kiss against his knuckles, right on the shiny new skin that’s just healed over. He looks up, and Clint’s sure his heart stops as their eyes meet, as Bucky’s face breaks into a smile.

“I want a small wedding,” he says, whispering the words against Clint’s hand, pulling him in closer by the arm. “Steve can get ordained. He’ll marry us in that dive bar in Fort Greene, where you asked me to move in with you. We can eat bar food and sing karaoke. We’ll invite the team. Tony’ll get drunk and give an embarrassing toast. Nat will just raise her glass and say something in Russian that’ll make us both cry.”

Clint doesn’t answer. He _can’t_ answer. He’s not sure if he’s floating or falling, but he knows he’s far from solid ground and Bucky’s got a twinkle in his eye that Clint’s never seen before.

Something must show in his face, because Bucky’s grin dims to a small smile. He presses another kiss against Clint’s hand, on the edge of his palm.

“Just think about it,” he says, picking up the Xbox controller.

>>=========>

They don’t talk about it for almost a month.

The whole team has been out on a mission for two days, or maybe three. It’s sort of a muddled mess of too much stress and too little sleep. All Clint knows is he’s got sand in places he doesn’t want to think about, and the quinjet is bumping just a little too much to make for a peaceful sleep.

“I hate sand,” Tony announces, popping a panel off his suit to empty the grit out as soon as they touch down on the Tower helipad. Natasha grunts in agreement, trying to shake the dust out of her ponytail. Clint just wants to get out of his gear. Between his quiver and his boots, he’s pretty sure he brought half the Gobi Desert back to New York.

“You hate _deserts_ ,” Bucky corrects, flashing the grin he’s had on since the tides changed in their battle with AIM. His face is dark with dust, and Clint doesn’t envy the amount of sand that must be trapped in his uniform, but he seems to be riding a post-mission high that everyone else missed out on. “You don’t seem to mind beaches at all.”

“No, I hate sand. All sand,” Tony says, scraping more of the stuff out of a crevice in his shoulder piece as they all stomp down the loading ramp. “Bikinis just make it a little better.”

“What was it you said last month, in France?” Steve jumps in. His face is only dusty in places his helmet didn’t cover. Clint thinks he looks like the world’s buffest raccoon. “ _Why isn’t everywhere just made of sand and sunshine?_ ”

“Okay, first of all, that’s out of context and you know it. Statements made at nude beaches do not apply to barren wastelands. Ever. And secondly, jokes on you because now I know you didn’t manage to tune me out like you said you did.”

Clint scrubs a hand through his hair, sighing at the dust storm that falls out. He follows the team towards the entrance, pausing when he realizes that Bucky’s bootsteps aren’t among the dragging feet. He hangs back, watching everyone else slip through the door before he turns around.

Bucky’s standing in the middle of the roof, arms stretched out to soak up what little warmth there is from early-autumn weather in New York. The wind is whipping his hair around, probably stinging what parts of his skin aren’t already chafed raw by sand, but his smile hasn’t faltered.

He cracks his eyes open as Clint stares, shooting him a wink as he runs his right hand through his hair.

“You a fan of sand and sunshine?” Clint asks, because he’s never thought much of the desert, but if Bucky’s this happy with sand in his ass, there must be something about it that Clint’s missing.

“Don’t need it. You’re my sunshine,” Bucky answers, and it’s so cheesy that Clint can’t hold back a laugh. He crosses to the middle of the helipad to take Bucky by the hand, drag him inside so they can help each other wash the dust off. Bucky beams at him. “You know you get freckles from the sun?”

“Yeah, that’s usually how that works,” Clint says, giving Bucky a tug. He shakes his head, planting his feet like Lucky does when he’s not ready for a walk to end.

“No, I mean _you_ get them. On missions, when we go somewhere sunny. They show up in less than a day.”

Bucky takes Clint’s face in his right hand, brushing his thumb along his cheekbone. Clint feels himself blush.

“I noticed them today, when we took out that laser cannon. Almost took a hit to the face because I couldn’t stop thinking about them.” Bucky presses a kiss to the bridge of Clint’s nose, apparently undeterred by the layer of dirt on his skin.

“Too bad I wore the uniform with sleeves, huh?” Clint jokes. “Now I’ll have the world’s worst farmer’s tan.”

“S’alright,” Bucky says, sliding his left arm around Clint’s waist, pulling them flush together like some kind of cheesy action movie. Like he’s the hero that just won the girl, ready to fuck off to Majorca and enjoy spy retirement until the studio needs a sequel. “You can even it out later. I’m thinking I want a destination wedding, anyways. St. Lucia, maybe. Or Anguilla. Just the two of us. We’ll rent a place. Say our vows on the beach, watch the sunset every night.”

Clint swallows, because Bucky’s got his lines down pat, except that’s not how life works. That’s not the spy story they’re in. They’re not Mr. and Mrs. Smith, They’re probably Jason and Marie. Jason and Nicky, if he’s being optimistic about it. Except Bourne was a victim of circumstance, wasn’t he? Maybe they _are_ Mr. and Mrs. Smith, but only act one. International men of mystery downed by nothing more than the inevitable staleness of a long-term relationship.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Bucky murmurs, pressing another kiss, feather-light, against Clint’s cheek. “It’s just an idea. What I _really_ want right now is a shower, maybe someone to share it with.”

Clint grins, starts tugging Bucky towards the door again, because _that_ he can do.

>>=========>

Two weeks later puts them on a two-person mission in Alaska. It’s an in-and-out kind of thing. No long-term recon or covers. The SHIELD copter drops them just outside the HYDRA base in full gear, and Clint and Bucky make short work of the place. They’re out and headed for the collection point in less than three hours, a hard drive full of intel in Clint’s pocket and a smoldering wreck of brick and metal behind them.

The collection point is a bit of a hike, and Clint finds himself staying uncharacteristically quiet. He was never the kind of kid to go camping for fun, but growing up far from the city will make anyone appreciate the wilderness every once in a while.

They cut a path straight through the forest, and even as Clint feels his toes starting to go numb, he can’t help but marvel at the way the pine trees look covered in snow. His breath comes out in short puffs, fogging up the air in front of him, and Clint wonders when he became such a New Yorker that he could forget air as fresh as this.

“I want a cruise,” Bucky says. He speaks softly, but the echo of the words still hang in the air like the cloud of his breath.

“What?” Clint says, grinning as he knocks a tiny icicle off the edge of an evergreen bough.

“For our wedding. I want one of those cruises through the Arctic. The Captain can marry us, can’t he? We can drink champagne and watch glaciers glide by. We’ll honeymoon in our cabin, keep warm by fucking under a mountain of quilts, and then watch the northern lights through our window.”

Clint purses his lips, pulling the neck of his uniform up as if he’s suddenly decided his chin is cold. It’s not that it doesn’t sound nice. Clint’s always been able to appreciate the peacefulness of a snowy landscape, especially with someone to share it with. He just doesn’t like the idea of being trapped on a boat when shit inevitably hits the fan, when Bucky realizes his mistake and calls the whole thing off. Clint’s no history buff, but he’s pretty sure cruise ships and icebergs have a pretty poor track record. Almost as bad as him and long-term relationships.

“I think the quinjet is just through there,” Bucky says, mercifully changing the subject. He points ahead to where the trees seem to be thinning.

“Better hurry, then,” Clint answers.

>>=========>

“How about a big event?” Bucky asks. It’s three days later, still in the acceptable post-mission range of time to blame laziness on bruises and huddle up on the couch all day. Bucky’s shoved in the corner of the sofa, wearing pajama pants and an old t-shirt that Clint’s pretty sure is his, unless Bucky’s adopted a new habit of raiding Goodwills for Blade Runner merch. Either way, he can appreciate the softness of it better with his head in Bucky’s lap than he ever could wearing the shirt himself, so Clint’s not about to complain. Bucky’s been playing with his hair for the last hour, too, which is the easiest way to get Clint to forget anything he’s mad about.

“Hm?” he asks. Lucky’s stretched out on Clint’s legs, face twitching as he dreams of squirrel chasing. Between the sleeping dog and Bucky’s fingers combing through Clint’s hair, he decides it’s not worth turning to look Bucky in the eyes.

“I want a big wedding. Like celebrities get, you know? It’s not like we’re Gable and Lombard, but we have fans. We could make it a charity event, hold it in Central Park. Televise it. They only ever show straight weddings on TV. It would mean something to a lot of people.”

“I can wear a big fuckin’ train. Like Princess Di.” Clint mumbles the words into Bucky’s thigh, muffled by the flannel pajama pants. Bucky’s fingers freeze, and it takes almost a full minute for Clint to realize that’s the first time he’s responded to all this.

“Yeah, we’ll pull out all the stops. Really put both our brands out there. Instead of throwing rice, they’ll fire arrows into the air.” Clint can hear the smile in Bucky’s voice, even as he turns it into a joke. “Instead of breaking a bulb, we’ll just set off a bomb.”

“Tony would turn it into a shitty joke. Something about us ending our wedding night with a bang.”

Bucky shifts, and for a moment Clint thinks he’s said something terribly wrong, that Bucky’s just going to roll him onto the floor and walk right out of the apartment. Instead, he gets a kiss pressed against his forehead.

He can feel the smile on Bucky’s lips.

>>=========>

“How do you feel about churches?” Bucky asks, slipping behind Clint in the kitchen one morning as he stares vacantly at the coffee machine. Bucky presses a kiss to Clint’s bare shoulder before heading for the fridge, taking out the creamer that Clint didn’t even realize he forgot.

“Some of ‘em are pretty,” Clint manages, his voice still rough with sleep. “Why?”

“We could do something traditional. Get a priest and everything. A few people on the team probably have some favors they could call in. We could book a real nice place for next week. Then we’d only have one anniversary to remember.”

The coffee machine beeps and Bucky hovers as Clint fixes himself a cup. It’s still too hot to drink, but he feels a little more awake just holding the mug.

“Weren’t you raised Jewish?” he says finally. Bucky’s face splits into a grin.

“I never said it was _my_ tradition. I don’t know, maybe I just think church weddings are classy.”

“Buck,” Clint says, sipping his coffee despite the steam still curling out of the mug, “The reason we can’t agree if this is our two year anniversary or our year-and-a-half anniversary is because we started fucking six months before our first date. I don’t think ‘classy’ is our thing.”

“I’ll show you classy,” Bucky growls, nipping at Clint’s other shoulder, smiling against his skin.

>>=========>

Bucky’s slumped against Clint, dozing in and out as the TV paints his face with flashes of color. The team movie night fell through, but Clint knows Bucky was the only one gunning for his movie pick anyways, so he’s not complaining. Die Hard is too badass for the rest of the team to handle anyways. Clint’s trying not to take it too hard that Bucky fell asleep before Alan Rickman even showed up.

“France,” Bucky mumbles. Clint’s not even sure if he’s awake.

“Hm?”

“Honeymoon in France.” Bucky’s eyes are still closed, his lashes throwing shadows over his cheeks in the light of the TV. “Never got to go without the war. Want to take you to Paris.”

“And where would we get married?” Clint asks, running his hands through Bucky’s hair because he’s pretty sure none of this will be remembered by tomorrow. He allows himself a small smile in the dark.

“Home,” Bucky murmurs.

>>=========>

“What about the Himalayas?” Bucky asks. Clint doesn’t look up. He’s almost done checking the fletchings on his arrows, just a few minutes more. He’s made it past all of Bucky’s distraction attempts so far.

“What about them?”

“I’ve never been.” Bucky sits down next to Clint, resting his head on his shoulder like the long-ass benches in the locker rooms aren’t plenty big enough for the both of them. “I’ve heard they’re breathtaking.”

Clint gives a noncommittal hum.

“I want to exchange vows on Mount Everest. Somewhere as breathtaking as you.”

Clint’s fumbles with the next arrow, gritting his teeth as Bucky wraps his arms around his waist.

>>=========>

“Natasha said you’ve always liked Marrakesh.”

Clint fires off three arrows, not even stopping to see them hit their targets. The doom bots are swarming, and he and Bucky are the only ones on the ground.

“You want to stop off in Morocco on our way back stateside?”

Bucky empties a round in the front lines of a new wave. He grunts in frustration as his gun clicks to empty, twirling it around and using the butt to smash in the head of a bot that slipped through Clint’s perimeter.

“Natasha said that _you_ said that you’d want to get married in the Majorelle Garden.”

“Lies and slander,” Clint says, turning to stab a doom bot so that Bucky can’t see the pink in his cheeks.

>>=========>

“I bet Steve could get them to hold a ceremony at the Statue of Liberty.”

“I swear to god, if you make me say my vows in Staten Island, I’ll divorce you immediately.”

>>=========>

>>=========>

>>=========>

Clint opens his eyes to hospital fluorescents.

The air smells like disinfectant, and he’s definitely tucked into scratchy hospital sheets. He blinks against the bright white, trying to remember how he got here.

There was a fight. A mission. An explosion? Bright light, loud sounds. Screaming. Who was screaming? Was it him? He was searching for someone, digging through the rubble. There was another explosion, then nothing.

Moving his head hurts. Moving anything hurts, actually. Clint’s pretty sure his bruises have bruises. There’s a weight on his arm, and a second of panic shoots through him before he realizes it’s just the weight of someone else.

Bucky stirs, sitting up suddenly and rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he notices Clint’s awake. He’s got circles under his eyes darker than Clint’s ever seen, and his hair suggests he’s skipped the last few showers. Clint hopes he’s eaten.

He realizes he doesn’t have his aids in, and by the time he gets his eyes down to Bucky’s lips, he only catches the end of the tirade. Even through what he’s pretty sure is a serious concussion, the words are familiar enough. ‘How could you be so stupid?’

Bucky’s hovering just out of arm’s reach, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. Clint’s stomach drops, because _that’s_ a look he’s seen before. This is it. The inevitable moment, when Bucky finally gets it. When he gets how thoughtless Clint is, how he’s only prolonging the disappointment.

Clint waits. He waits for Bucky to stand up, send his chair clattering back on the cold tile, waits for the vibrations of the _thud_ as the door is slammed behind him.

Instead, Bucky takes Clint’s hand with both of his own. He mumbles something, but Clint can’t see it right with Bucky’s lips against his palm.

“What?” he says. The words come out too loud, he’s pretty sure, and his mouth feels like sandpaper. Bucky looks at him then, and Clint’s surprised to see there’s no anger in his eyes.

Bucky shakes his head, waves away the question like whatever he just said wasn’t important. He makes just one sign, pressing it into Clint’s hand like he can get the meaning in through his skin.

‘ _I love you_.’

Clint feels like a switch has been flipped. Like a key has been turned, and all the tumblers inside him just fell into place. He feels his throat get tight, and he’s never cried in a hospital bed before, but his eyes are stinging because Bucky’s holding on so goddamn tight. Bucky’s not leaving.

“So,” Clint says, his throat scratchy and his tongue heavy. “I was thinking you and me, city hall. Tomorrow. As soon as I get out. We’ll hop a cab. I won’t even change. Hospital gown, wedding gown. What’s the difference, really?”

Clint can feel Bucky’s laugh as he presses his face into his arm, wrapping him into a hug at the least awkward angle they can manage in a hospital bed. Clint can’t quite hug back, between the IV and the bruises and the fact that he’s weak as hell. He combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair instead, smiling up at the stark white ceiling tiles because this feels like something dangerously close to a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me on tumblr at spidergwenstefani. I live off of ramen and pizza bagels but kudos and comments are what I really crave <3


End file.
